


self-definition

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [29]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You’re — ” Georgie starts, then frowns. “I don’t know. There’s you and there’s you.”“That made no fucking sense, Georgie,” Robbie says. “In case you were wondering.”“I don’t know,” Georgie repeats. “Sometimes you’re just, it’s like you’re — when did you get so bitter?”





	

They lose. Again. They were fucking flying before New Years, skimming the top of league standings, but it hasn’t been like that lately. It’s not like they’re in some disastrous spiral or anything, and it’d take a damn miracle — or anti-miracle — for them to not to make the playoffs, but Robbie misses the feeling when they were golden. He’d blame Georgie for it, since they dipped after he came, but he knows that isn’t fair. His pairing with Georgie is better than his pairing with Wheels ever was, he knows that without even looking at the stats, though he’s sure they’d corroborate it. 

No one’s really at fault. No one’s slumping too hard, even when Crane’s not showing flashes of fucking genius he’s still elite, and they’re fairly uninjured compared to most other teams. Nothing to blame, really. It’s just luck. They were having good luck, now they’re having bad luck. Sometimes that’s just the way shit goes.

Robbie fucking hates losing. He knows he’s not alone in that. He knows every single guy on the roster hates it, that some may even hate it more than he does, that none of them would have reached the point they did if they hated losing any less. That hatred of losing pushes them when their bodies are at the breaking point, when they’re all so tired that it’d be easy, so easy, to give up. Except they don’t, because if they do, they’ll lose.

But then, of course, they lost anyway.

No one’s in a good mood after that game. Nobody’s bringing up going out, or hanging out, or doing anything other than going back to their rooms to lick their respective wounds. Robbie doesn’t go straight back to his, because disappearing from it immediately afterward isn’t exactly subtle. He tells Matty he’s going to make a call before he heads up, which is pretty typical for both of them, because otherwise it’s either zero privacy or kicking a bro out of his own room. 

It’s too late to call his mother, any of his family, but he sends Cassidy a message on facebook. She’d sent him a couple after Georgie got traded there, and Robbie didn’t answer them, because the last thing he wanted was to acknowledge it. He still doesn’t, so he sidesteps every bit of sympathy that’d been sent his way then lays out question after question — how her job is, how she’s liking California, whether she’s still with the guy she was the last time they talked — hoping that she’ll be too busy answering them to ask any questions of her own.

When he’s done, the lobby’s quiet, no one around but the night staff at the front desk, and it’s safe to go upstairs, to walk right past his room and knock on Georgie’s door. Georgie opens the door so quickly Robbie wonders if he’d been waiting since he got back, if every noise had him starting forward, heartbeat picking up. Maybe Robbie should have stuck around the lobby for longer, made him suffer the wait, maybe even begin to doubt Robbie was coming it all.

“Hey,” Robbie says.

“Hi,” Georgie says.

“Are you gonna—” Robbie starts.

A second later he finds himself pressed against the inside of the door, Georgie’s knee between his thighs and tongue in his mouth. Robbie guesses that’s a yes to Georgie letting him come in.

“Motherfucking ow,” Robbie gets out when the pain of the door handle digging into his back finally distracts him from Georgie’s mouth.

Georgie pulls back immediately. “Did I—”

“Door handle’s trying to take out my spleen,” Robbie says.

“Shit, sorry,” Georgie says. “Bed?”

The part of Robbie that wants to argue when Georgie suggests anything is overridden by the part of him that thinks a bed sounds pretty fucking good right now. 

“Bed,” Robbie agrees, and sheds his clothes as quickly as Georgie does, locker room quick, so that they’re naked by the time they hit the sheets. 

*

Bed is Georgie’s mouth against his, lips hot, redder every time he pulls back, the plush of them giving under Robbie’s thumb when he presses it to Georgie’s bottom lip. 

“Do you want—” Georgie says, mouth brushing his skin like a caress as he speaks.

“Shut up,” Robbie says, before Georgie can finish, can offer something that Robbie can’t refuse. He shifts down Georgie’s body before Georgie can say anything else, offers something himself, wordless, wrapping his mouth around the head of Georgie’s cock, his fingers around the hot silk length of it. He pulls back every time Georgie makes too much noise, until Georgie’s got a hand fisted in the sheets, another clenched on his thigh like he was reaching for Robbie’s hair before he stopped himself, and the only sound he’s making is the too fast pant of his breath as he gets close.

“Robbie,” he says finally, breaking the near-silence, unmistakably a warning, and this time Robbie doesn’t pull back, just takes him deeper and lets Georgie come down his throat.

Georgie returns the favor and then some. Always a competitive fucking bastard. Maybe Robbie will complain when he gets his breath back.

Georgie shifts up the bed, shoulder brushing Robbie’s as he lies down beside him, and Robbie would shift away, but it seems fucking stupid to do that when he still has the taste of Georgie on his tongue. 

“I think we’ve gotten even better at this,” Georgie says a little hoarsely, and Robbie can’t help laughing, because yep. Whatever else is going on, the sex has been pretty fucking incredible.

Georgie’s breath is slowing by degrees, and Robbie’s torn. On the one hand, he sure as shit doesn’t want to stick around Georgie’s room and what, spoon? Watch TV together? Sleep, their bodies touching in so many places it’s almost impossible to count them as separate people instead of a unit? Some domestic shit that was great when they were together and makes his stomach turn now. On the other hand, everyone’s probably all still up, and Robbie’s not super into doing a walk of shame. From Georgie’s room to his is no big — it’s literally next door, and anyone seeing him go from one to the other would think the room is Wheels’ or Chaps’ or literally anyone but Georgie’s, but Matty’s going to know. 

He’s not sure what to expect when he gets back to their room, whether Matty’s going to call him on it or pretend he doesn’t know where Robbie was or what. Whether or not Matty heard them despite Robbie’s best efforts, God fucking forbid, something he’d been thinking about the entire time, trying to keep quiet out of respect for neighboring rooms instead of out of spite. Turns out that’s way fucking harder, especially with your dick in someone’s throat, as Robbie’s poor left hand can attest, Robbie’s teeth leaving indentations that hopefully won’t bruise. Being quiet when you’re getting deep-throated is fucking _hard_ , and it feels kind of ungrateful too, even if it’s just Georgie. Whatever else Robbie could say about him, he’s not going to deny that Georgie gives fucking fantastic head.

 _Probably had a lot of practice_ , Robbie thinks, and every ounce good-will he retained from getting his brains sucked out of his dick disappears.

“Pants,” Robbie says, but doesn’t bother to move. He doesn’t think he can feel his feet. 

“Lazy,” Georgie says, sounding fond in a way that makes Robbie’s stomach clench. He reaches over Robbie’s body to grab them from beside the bed, and that’s — fuck that. Robbie sits up, almost knocking Georgie off the bed in the bargain, gets his own pants before Georgie can. Georgie gives him a look he can’t figure out but isn’t going to bother trying. Sometimes he thinks Georgie does that shit on purpose, has this secret cache of facial expressions he pulls out when he wants Robbie to feel confused, off-balance. It’d work if Robbie gave a shit what they meant, which he’s decided he doesn’t.

“I’m capable of getting my own shit,” Robbie says, like this wasn’t the hundredth time Georgie had grabbed him something he was too lazy to get himself.

“Sure,” Georgie says blandly.

“Fuck off,” Robbie says, getting out of bed. He grabs his underwear as he’s at it. Makes sense to put those on first, probably.

Through the corner of his eye he catches Georgie lying back down, all tight muscle, and it’s tempting to look, even after he’s gotten off. Instead, Robbie focuses on making sure his underwear aren’t inside out before he steps into them, because that was fucking embarrassing last time. 

He can feel Georgie’s eyes on him, heavy as a touch itself. Heavy enough to drag him down.

“What?” Robbie asks.

“What?” Georgie repeats.

“Why are you looking at me?” Robbie asks, before stepping into his pants.

“I’m allowed to blow you but looking at you isn’t allowed?” Georgie asks. It sounds ridiculous, the way he says it, like Robbie’s being absurd.

The thing is, Robbie’s not stupid, and Robbie’s not oblivious. He knows Georgie’s been looking at him — fuck, Georgie’s been looking at him since he came here, but he’s looking even more now. Robbie knows what Georgie’s gaze feels like. It used to make him feel warm. 

It still does, actually, which he fucking hates.

Georgie’s been looking at him. A lot. Georgie’s been at his place practically at the snap of Robbie’s fingers, like he doesn’t have any other shit to do, or if he does, he’ll cancel. Been at Robbie’s heels.

Robbie’s not stupid, and Robbie knows Georgie, and Robbie knows Georgie’s never been like this with anyone but him. Or maybe he was with someone in Cleveland, but Robbie doesn’t think so.

Why do you even keep doing this?” Robbie asks. He still doesn’t know why _he_ does, let alone what Georgie’s getting out of it, other than some pretty spectacular sex.

Georgie knows what he means without asking. Georgie even has an answer for him, because of course Georgie’s always got a fucking answer.

“It’s like Russian roulette,” Georgie says. When Robbie glances back, Georgie’s staring at the ceiling.

“You saying you’ve got some kind of death wish?” Robbie asks. 

“Something like that,” Georgie says.

Robbie should ignore him, keep getting dressed. He doesn’t really want to encourage Georgie’s no doubt smug little analogy by asking, but he’s curious. 

“I mean, the chances of me killing you are pretty good,” Robbie says, and Georgie’s mouth quirks a little, a smile there and then gone. “Okay, fine, why is it like Russian roulette?”

“You know, six chambers, one bullet —” 

“I know how it works,” Robbie interrupts. “I’m asking you what the fuck you’re going on about.”

Georgie shrugs. 

“What, one in six times I do something that hurts your precious feelings?” Robbie guesses.

“More like five out of six,” Georgie says. “The sixth time you’re like — ”

“Like what?” Robbie asks.

Georgie shrugs again. “Like you, I guess.”

“So it’s like reverse Russian roulette?” Robbie asks. “Every chamber’s loaded but one, you stick around hoping you’re gonna get Nice Guy Robbie?”

“No,” Georgie says.

“No?” Robbie asks.

“Those are the bullets,” Georgie says. “Those are the times that hurt.”

Robbie swallows, hard, then makes himself laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Robbie asks. “The fuck are you playing at?”

“You asked me a question, I answered it,” Georgie says.

“With some manipulative bullshit,” Robbie says.

Georgie sits up. 

“You asked me a question with the intention of rubbing in that you know exactly how fucked over you I still am, and _I’m_ the manipulative one?” Georgie asks. “Really, Robbie?”

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t sound angry. Says it as evenly as he’s looking Robbie in the eye right now, seeing right through him, and Robbie can’t — he hates how Georgie’s always right. He hates it. And he hates that he sounds accepting too.

“That wasn’t—” Robbie says.

Georgie stares him down.

“It was also curiosity,” Robbie mutters, and Georgie, of all fucking things, laughs.

“What?” Robbie asks. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Bullet right there,” Georgie says.

“So what, now laughing hurts too?” Robbie asks.

“Around you?” Georgie says. “Pretty much.”

“Hope it gives you a fucking hernia,” Robbie says. “Would serve you right for sticking around.”

Georgie’s mouth quirks. “Two for one night, huh?”

“Huh?” Robbie asks. “If you thought that was Nice Guy Robbie, I think you need to get your head examined.”

“Nice Guy Robbie isn’t what I meant,” Georgie says. “You put it that way, not me.”

“Okay, then what did you mean?” Robbie asks.

“Just,” Georgie says. “You, I guess?”

“Me, you guess,” Robbie says flatly, hoping Georgie hears how stupid that sounds.

“You’re — ” Georgie starts, then frowns. “I don’t know. There’s you and there’s you.”

“That made no fucking sense, Georgie,” Robbie says. “In case you were wondering.”

“I don’t know,” Georgie repeats. “Sometimes you’re just, it’s like you’re — when did you get so bitter?”

“I was always bitter,” Robbie says, and he’s not lying, but, “Probably when you decided sticking your dick in anything hot and wet was more important than me.”

Georgie flinches. Robbie hopes it hurt as much to hear as it did to say. That it hurt more.

“And on that wonderful note, I’m going to go,” Robbie says, and finishes getting dressed in a hurry, avoiding looking at Georgie.

“Night, Robbie,” Georgie says quietly when Robbie’s leaving, and Robbie shuts the door behind himself without answering.

*

“Long call,” Matty says when Robbie gets back to the room, voice toneless.

“Yep,” Robbie says. “I’m taking a shower.”

Matty mutters something that sounds like “I bet”, but Robbie can’t be sure.

“What was that?” Robbie asks.

“Nothing,” Matty says. “Don’t use all the hot water.”

“For the actual millionth time, Elliott, hotels don’t run out of hot water,” Robbie says. 

“Be environmentally responsible,” Matty counters.

“Fuck, Quincy’s got you on that shit too, now?” Robbie asks. “Bunch of fucking granola —”

“Granola’s tasty,” Matty says.

“Okay, buddy, whatever you say,” Robbie says. He showers quick, more rinsing off any traces of Georgie that linger on his skin, real or imaginary. 

_How fucked over you I still am_ , Georgie said. Robbie hadn’t known he was angling for it until Georgie called him out on it, but Georgie nailed him to the wall with it, and he was right. Robbie hadn’t realized he needed to hear it until Georgie said it. Until Georgie said it and something in Robbie twisted tight, then finally relaxed.

At least they’re both fucked, here. And in more ways than one.

*

“What are we watching?” Robbie asks once he comes out of the bathroom, clean teeth, clean underwear, hair dripping into his eyes without gel holding it back.

“News,” Matty says, and then changes the channel when Robbie groans. “Okay, what do you want to watch?”

Robbie bypasses his own bed to sit on Matty’s and steal the remote. 

“Sure, you choose,” Matty says sarcastically when Robbie starts flipping through channels too fast, not really taking any of them in beyond a shift of color, intermittent blaring noise. You’d think channels would all be the same volume, but nope. 

“Give me that, you’re giving me a headache,” Matty says, and takes the remote back from Robbie’s limp grip. He sets it back on the news. It’s local right now, shit he doesn’t care about in a city he doesn’t care about, sees twice a year and forgets the rest of the time.

 _Just you_ , Georgie said, about the bullet in the chamber. Robbie hurt Georgie by being him, whatever the fuck that means. Fuck, he’d love to know what ‘you’ actually is, since it seems to rip Georgie to shreds. Robbie should weaponize that shit. That shit being him. 

“Hey Matty?” Robbie says.

“Hm?” Matty says.

“What am I like?” Robbie asks.

“What do you mean?” Matty asks.

“Like, how would you describe me?” Robbie asks.

“What’s this about?” Matty asks, turning off the TV.

“Just answer the question,” Robbie says.

“I don’t know,” Matty says. “An asshole?” 

“Well I already knew that,” Robbie complains, and Matty laughs.

“Like, a smartass?” Matty says. “Loud? Stubborn? Intense?”

“Feeling the love, Matty,” Robbie says.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Matty says.

“Because those are all super positive adjectives,” Robbie says. 

“You’re fun,” Matty says. “It’s fun to be around you. I mean. Usually.”

 _Not lately,_ Robbie can practically hear, even without Matty saying it.

“I don’t know,” Matty repeats, sounding kind of flustered. He’s going red now. He goes red so easy. “You’re just you, you know?”

“Apparently,” Robbie says. “But I don’t know what the fuck that means.”

“Is this about Georgie?” Matty asks, frowning now. “Did he say—”

“Nah, it’s just something my sister said,” Robbie says. “Had me wondering. No worries.”

“Well,” Matty says. “I like you, if that means anything.”

“Aw, c’mere, Elliott,” Robbie says.

“No noogies,” Matty says. “No noogies!”

It’s too late. The noogies have arrived.

*

Robbie wakes up with an arm slung over his side. For a moment he’s terrified he fell asleep in Georgie’s room, but he hears the low sound of a laugh track and realizes him and Matty must’ve fallen asleep watching TV. It’s late night, not morning, Robbie can tell without even looking at the time, and he should turn the TV off, head back to his own bed, but it’s comfortable here, warm, the volume of the TV low enough to be the same white noise as Matty’s soft breath. He falls back asleep.

When he wakes up to his alarm, too far to reach, the TV’s off but Matty’s still got a hold of him. “No,” Matty says when Robbie moves, fingers tightening on his hip.

“Alarm, buddy,” Robbie says, and Matty reluctantly lets go of his hip. Usually it takes Robbie a cup of coffee before he’s ready to face the day, but he’s pretty alert by the time he shuts his alarm off. He feels good. 

“I have a good feeling about today,” Robbie says, going to flick on the light.

“Fuck off, Robbie,” Matty mumbles, muffled by a pillow he dragged over his face when Robbie hit the lights. Matty is also a cup of coffee sort of guy. 

“Want me to go get you a coffee?” Robbie asks.

Matty pulls the pillow down enough to give him suspicious eyes. “What’s up with you this morning?” Matty says.

“Dunno,” Robbie says. “Must be my loud, intense, asshole personality.”

“Sounds about right,” Matty yawns. 

“You want coffee or not, Elliott?” Robbie asks.

“Coffee,” Matty says plaintively, and Robbie takes pity on him.

“I gotcha, bro,” Robbie says, and he’s whistling when he leaves the room.

“Fuck’s up with you?” Quincy grunts at him, shuffling down the hall with an energy drink from the vending machine.

“Think today’s going to be a good day,” Robbie says. “That’s all.”


End file.
